


Beginnings

by lategoodbye



Category: Anthem (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Missing Scene, No Spoilers, pre-game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-06 15:20:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17942192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lategoodbye/pseuds/lategoodbye
Summary: Owen and the Freelancer go way back, but some things never change.





	1. Chapter 1

He’s left home not four days ago and already he’s messed things up. Now he’s in stranded in a strange city that’s halfway to where he’s supposed to be going and the next strider that’s taking on civilian passengers only leaves a week from now.

All of this he can handle. His mother always says he’s resourceful. It’s why his parents have sent him away in the first place, to stay with his aunt in Bastion and, should he prove himself talented enough, inherit her javelin and train to become a Freelancer himself. The suit’s been in his family since his grandfather’s brought it with him from Antium, and he has seen it in action only once, years ago, but Bastion isn’t the only place that has Freelancers by the dozen. There’s murals and tales, and every settlement has a Forge of its own. Freelancers are everywhere, in their shining metal suits of every imaginable colour, so different from those of the uniform Sentinels. He wants nothing more than to fly with them in a javelin of his own, and this year – on his sixteenth birthday – his parents and his aunt have finally agreed to let him begin his training in earnest.

Only right now it’s unlikely he’ll even make it out of this small backwater town, much less buy passage on one of the striders, because the savings with which his parents have entrusted him: the coin that should have paid for his travels and his training – it’s just been stolen. In broad daylight! From right under his nose.

But he’s determined to get it back. Not once does he consider asking one of the Sentinels for help. Instead he starts chasing after the thief himself – a nimble figure dressed in rags of various shades of washed-out grey. They pass the many market stalls, then round an old, unmaintained fountain on the edge of the square whose only contents are sad puddles of stale, green water.

“Stop!”, he shouts but he might as well not have bothered. The thief ducks underneath rusty old scaffolding and vanishes into one of many narrow alleyways that mark the beginning of the city proper. To someone who’s nothing more than a reluctant tourist the high-walled houses with their many wooden doors and windows all look deceptively similar, but he doesn’t have a choice. He needs that money because it holds the promise of all of his hopes and dreams.

Once his eyes have adjusted to the twilight of the archway before him, he’s back on his trail. He catches a glimpse of one skinny leg just as it vanishes around the next corner. What he needs is a plan. Chances are he won’t be able to outrun his opponent. He’s always been good at hitting his mark, however, so he grabs the first thing he can easily get a hold of – a piece of withered brick that’s come loose from a nearby wall. As soon as he rounds the corner he takes aim. Missing his target would gamble away his only chance of success, but he’s practiced a lot these past few months and he’s desperate, maybe a bit too eager in his violent approach. He skids to halt to watch as his make-shift missile hits the thief square in the back. 

The thief’s reaction is immediate.

“Oof!”, he goes in a high-pitched and somewhat comical bout of surprise before he loses his balance and tips forward. Almost immediately he tumbles to the uneven ground, right foot caught beneath the full weight of his body. The fall looks like it hurts, but – at least momentarily – he has no sympathy for the thief. His eyes firmly fixed on the small leather purse clutched in one of his hands, he warily inches closer.

“Ouch!”, a youthful voice exclaims accusingly. The unexpected chain of events has shaken off his hood and he can make out tan skin and long lashes under softly arched eyebrows. A boy, younger than him but not by much, with dark hair cropped close to his scalp, and an old cut on his lower lip that’s barely scabbed over. 

But even now he won’t let go of his ill-gotten prize.

“Give it back!”, he demands cautiously but with as much authority as he can muster.

The thief props himself up on sharp elbows, then purposefully whirls around to face him.

“What, this?”, he casually enquires and lifts the hand that holds the pouch. He shakes it once, and for a moment the coin inside jingles brightly. His stomach lurches with longing. The thief’s mouth widens in a disarmingly charming and calculated smile.

“Yes!”, he hisses instead and impatiently holds out his own hand, fingernails still dusty from bits of fine, powdery mortar. “I saw you steal it. It’s mine, now give it back.”

The thief considers this, then his bony, bloodied knees.

“Why would you need all of this money?”, he asks, his animated face now wide-eyed and open. He points at his pursuer’s clothes: an unassuming sleeveless tunic and a patterned scarf, wide trousers tucked into comfortably worn-out boots, an old leather satchel carried across his body. “You don’t even look that rich.”

He seems disappointed, but it’s difficult to pinpoint whether the frown on his face is directed at him or a result of his own observation.

The thing is, no one has ever accused him of looking either rich or poor – or of anything much really – and the sudden confrontation puzzles him.

“Excuse me? It’s none of your business!”, probably is be the best way to approach this. After all, the thief still hasn’t parted with what he has so openly, so confidently stolen from him. “And what kind of thief are you anyway?”

The boy raises one finger as if to stall his curiosity.

“Ah,” he makes and smiles up at him. “I’m Owen.”

But by now he feels sufficiently overwhelmed by this stranger’s unique talent for demanding his complete attention. Is this a trick? To play for time, perhaps? He’s unsure about what to do, and quite a bit intrigued. Suddenly the delayed strider and the journey ahead seem oddly muted in comparison.

“What?”, is all that he can manage. He can’t keep up, and he knows that he’s out of his depth. 

“Owen. It’s my name?” The boy’s smile never wavers. It’s warm, a bit too big on his face. He finally pushes himself off the ground, the scraped knees and dirtied clothes all but forgotten. With a quick sleight of hand the small bag of coins changes from one fist into the other. He reaches out to him then, as if he genuinely expects him to answer the greeting in kind. 

“Why are you telling me this?”, he finds himself asking, suddenly suspicious of the thief’s change of heart.

“So maybe you won’t grass on me to the nearest Sentinel?” The words come out as a hopeful question, one that can’t entirely hide his worry. “They don’t take kindly to thieves, you know. Doesn’t matter if they’re desperate or starving or—”

There’s a jangle of coin as his wildly-gesturing hands move this way and that.

“My money.”

“I’m not even a bad thief”, Owen goes on. “In fact, you’ll find that I’m usually rather good at this.”

“Give it back.” He straightens his back and holds out his own hand expectantly. Standing so closely together, he’s barely a head taller than the other boy but this time he won’t accept no (or whatever else he has to say for himself) for an answer. When Owen finally decides to surrender his stolen goods, he exhales with visible relief.

“It’s just not my day is all”, Owen half-apologises, then glances at him curiously “And you, I haven’t seen you around before. Really, you can’t blame me for trying.”

“I’m not blaming you”, and strangely enough he finds that he means what he says. Things are looking up again, now that he doesn’t picture himself penniless and lost in a city not his own and far away from the places he’s dreamed about visiting one day soon. The unpleasant episode of pick-pocketing is already a thing of the past. It’s almost as if things are falling into place quite naturally. As if he’s about to make a friend.

“Oh?”

And Owen seems pleasantly surprised.

“It’s just that I really need this.”

The grip around his small purse tightens protectively before he stows it away safely in his satchel. Owen’s deep blue eyes tell a tale of envy and understanding.

“Yeah, I suppose.” He sighs and kicks up some dirt with boots that look to be a few sizes too big on him. “Hey, you’re not by any chance planning on going for a bite to eat?”, he pipes up before the ensuing silence between them has a chance of destroying their sudden camaraderie.

“Why?”, he replies with genuine interest.

“Because…”, and that same infectious smile lights up his face again. “I know where they sell the best sandwiches in all of Ponteix. Plenty enough to share between the two of us. Just in case you aren’t particularly hungry. Me, I’m famished, by the way.”

He definitely looks the part, all skinny legs and hollow eyes, and it’s easy to sympathise.

“Do you… know your way around town?”, he asks. It’s not like he’s got anything better to do with his time. And he really likes the way Owen’s unbridled optimism quiets down the nagging voice in the back of his mind that whispers of future worries and uncertainty.

“Are you kidding, it’s practically all I ever do”, but judging by his grin he doesn’t seem to mind that much.

“I really need to kill some time”, he explains. “Just until the next strider leaves for Bastion.”

Owen’s eyes narrow as he thinks this through.

“Sure, I can help”, he replies matter-of-factly, then punches his shoulder playfully. “Oh mate, we’re in for an exciting couple of days.

They leave the dark alley side by side, and by the time they’ve reached the old fountain again, their budding friendship seems as sure a thing as the Anthem of Creation itself.

“So, about those sandwiches…”, he suggests and finds himself returning Owen’s enthusiastic grin with a carefree smile of his own.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s not that difficult, spotting Freelancers in a crowd. These days, they mostly spend their time licking their wounds – their famous mantra all but forgotten. “Strong alone. Stronger together”? Yeah, right. Owen Corley hasn’t seen a sizeable gaggle (or is it a charm? A murder?) of Lancers in months now, ever since that whole Heart of Rage thing has gone south. Sometimes he catches glimpses of one of the more sad ones lurking by the empty contract boards, still hoping against all hope that people haven’t grown incredibly tired of them. Most of them are just… gone, and those that haven’t yet left spend their time drinking away their last remaining shreds of dignity (and coin) down at the local bar.

And isn’t that just his luck? Not two months after becoming a fully-fledged cypher (and one of the better ones, too) the Freelancers do something stupid and mess things up for him. Now how’s he going to find work that won’t bore him to death? Ask the Sentinels for help? The Arcanists? Oh, please! He hasn’t spent most of his life studying just to end up monitoring patrols and arguing semantics. He wants in on the action! He wants to see what’s beyond the Wall – if not first-hand then at least through the link of a like-minded adventurer. Only now there’s no action left to be had. Now there’s a row of decommissioned javelins by the understaffed Forge just waiting to be turned into scrap metal.

Slowly exhaling the smoke from his pipe, Owen idly wonders which one of the sad old rust buckets belongs to the Lancer currently sat by the bar. He has his back to him but his clothes – the laced boots and protective gear, the fitted top and trousers with their many straps and belts – are unmistakable. The other patrons, mostly workers and a few off-duty Sentinels, give him strange looks and a wide berth. No one wants to associate with what reminds them of one of humanity’s greatest defeats, and so the Lancer sits by himself and nurses his drink with single-minded devotion. 

Owen, for his part, isn’t particularly intrigued, either. Oh, he’s tried, of course: talking to the handful of Freelancers that are still left. They aren’t the only ones whose numbers have diminished after the Heart of Rage. Many have lost their cyphers – but one won’t work without the other so where’s the harm in seeking employment? Bah, all for nought! Precious few of them are even curious enough to let him finish speaking. Not to mention the couple of times he’s been rudely dismissed or even shouted at. Nope, Owen Corley isn’t in the mood for arguments tonight.

And neither is the Freelancer, by the looks of it.

“I asked if you’ve been at the Heart of Rage.”

Owen’s not exactly sure what the Lancer has done to gain their attention (nothing, probably – he knows first-hand how it is with some people), but he’s now half-surrounded by a small group of local troublemakers with highly questionable taste in headwear.

The Lancer doesn’t look up. Doesn’t react at all but for the slightest a shrug of his shoulders. Owen leans forward in his cushioned seat and narrows his eyes in concentration as he strains to catch more pieces of their conversation. Alas, any direct reply is swallowed by the noise. What follows are scraps of mean-spirited laughter and another mean-spirited insult.

“Probably wet yourself, too. Coward.”

Owen winces in sympathy. He somewhat understands the open dislike for Freelancers – people are in shock and still grieving the loss of Freemark, after all – but that’s a low and undeserved blow. Surely the man won’t sit quietly for very much longer? Sure, he might be outnumbered but he’s a Freelancer, right? 

Not that it counts for much these days.

Owen sighs. Curls of lazy smoke from his long-abandoned pipe adorn the air around him. For a short while nothing much happens. The Lancer’s still glued to the mug clutched in his hands as his less than sympathetic audience wanders off to seek its entertainment elsewhere. It’s no fun kicking those already on the ground, after all.

“Yeah”, sneers one of them. “Thought as much. Those glitching Lancers won’t even—” 

But he doesn’t get the chance to finish. There’s a flash of motion, then a half-filled mug hits the tiled floor directly in front of his feet, from where it rolls out of sight and leaves behind dark stains of spilled drink. There’s shouting and swearing and the beginnings of a scuffle, but Owen’s eyes are fixed on the Freelancer instead. The man’s jumped up from his stool and, in the heat of the moment, has half-turned toward him, and he knows that face – has seen it before, but where? At Bronelyn? No, there’s no Lancers at the Satomi. Heliost proper? It’s difficult to say. Ponteix, maybe?

Of course! Remembering the couple of weeks he’s spent in the small backwater settlement tugs at a string of memories he hasn’t thought back to in years, but the Lancer’s face hasn’t changed very much – perhaps it’s filled out some, and he’s definitely gained in height and muscle – and neither has his taste in makeshift projectiles.

At that, Owen grins – until he realises the seriousness of the situation. Not only is his Freelancer about to get thrown out of the bar, nope, he’s also dangerously close to getting his arse handed to him. There’s no way he can take on five people all at once, no matter his hypothetical heroic deeds while wearing a javelin. Something needs to be done.

Owen’s quick to jump to his feet. The pipe in his lap topples to the floor. It wasn’t his to begin with anyway.

“Err, excuse me”, and he quickly, nimbly interjects himself into the commotion before anyone can so much as lay a finger on the Lancer. He grabs him by the arm instead and not-so-ceremoniously begins to shove him in the general direction of the exit. “Sorry for the mess, but we’re about to leave anyway.”

Which seems to satisfy the riled-up barkeeper, at least.

“You know how it is.” And he keeps pushing urgently, just in case anyone’s quick-witted enough to realise that this is nothing more than a sleight of hand. A fist fight he won’t win but he’s good at distracting people. It’s all part of his undeniable charm. “Got places to be, errands to run, people to save, blah-blah-blah.”

And they’re out the door.

“I didn’t need your help”, the Freelancer protests weakly but he doesn’t sound angry, just tired and frustrated. He’s unshaven and the sensitive skin under his eyes are tell-tale shades of red and purple. He looks like he hasn’t slept properly in months.

“Oh yes, you did”, Owen chirps. “Admit it” – and he gives his shoulder a playful punch – “Without me you’d be in big trouble now. Not to mention the bar’s owner, and he’s a really big fan of the Sentinels, if you know what I mean.”

“I didn’t even—”

The Freelancer throws up his hands.

“And you spilled your drink”, Owen remarks dryly.

“True.”

The Lancer glances back at the bar’s entrance and frowns. He seems to regret his sudden outburst already and decides not to dwell on it for very much longer. Owen follows as he walks away. 

“Who are you, anyway? Do I know you?”, he asks after a few steps of companionable silence.

Owen cuts in front of him then, and turns toward him, self-confidence apparent in the way his mouth curls upward into a smile.

“Come on, isn’t it obvious, mate.” He spreads his arms, thumbs pointed toward himself. “I’m Owen.”

Which earns him a blank and irritated look, but Owen doesn’t give up so easily.

“Owen Corley?”, he prompts, hoping that maybe it’ll ring a bell. “Master thief? Purveyor of sandwiches? Cypher extraordinaire?”

He searches the Freelancer’s face for signs of recognition. It’s almost funny, the way he gapes at him, eyebrows pulled together and mouth slightly open as he tries to come to a satisfying conclusion.

“Wait, you’re…”

“Ah, I’m touched that you remember”, Owen is quick to reply. It’s meant as a joke, but he’s genuinely glad that the Freelancer remembers him. It makes him feel special and, truth be told, he doesn’t get to feel special very often. “How’ve you been?”

At that, the Freelancer grimaces.

“That bad, huh?” And Owen moves aside as he once again begins making his way down the dimly-lit alleyway. He falls into step beside him, and not without ulterior motive he adds: “Well, I’m sure it’s nothing a few contracts won’t fix.”

“Contracts?”, the Freelancer snorts.

“You’re a Lancer, right?”

But there’s a hint of hesitation before he answers.

“I guess.” The Freelancer tenses his shoulders, his mouth a thin line of bitterness and… what, guilt? “You overheard, I assume.”

But Owen gives his own shoulders a good-natured shrug.

“Bah, I don’t much care for gossip myself.” It’s not entirely true – at least where it concerns him personally – but it’ll do for now. “I saw your link, your clothes… Really, you Lancers aren’t exactly blending in.”

The Freelancer sneaks a quick look at himself. What little light there is catches on the familiar metal signet that he wears tied to the back of his right hand.

“I travel light. And I only just arrived.”

But Owen can’t help himself.

“And not a moment too soon!”, he exclaims in mock solemnity.

The Freelancer gives this a doubtful sideways glance.

“Really?”

Owen grins back at him.

“No, I’m kidding”, he admits, then sobers up fast. “It’s pretty bad, though. No contracts, no work, no Lancers…”

“Yeah…”, the Freelancer agrees wistfully.

“No cyphers, either. Except for me, obviously.”

“Okay.”

There’s a somewhat awkward pause in which Owen realises that he’s probably been a bit too forward with the man. Then again, there’s really no reason to change his tune now.

“So, what’s your plan?” And when his only reply is a non-committal shrug: “Oh, come on, there’s always a plan.”

The Freelancer is visibly uncomfortable with this. 

“The plan was… is…” For a moment the words mirror his internal struggle. Something’s definitely eating on him. He exhales once, then his voice gains in intent. “Picking up where I left off.”

“Business as usual.” Owen nods. “That’s an excellent plan. And now that there’s less competition – less contracts too, I know, but hear me out – now that there’s less competition, I see a rosy future ahead of us.”

He can picture it now: silencing dangerous Shaper relics, discovering ancient ruins, fighting the Dominion. He’s so pre-occupied with the many, many possibilities that he only now notices the Freelancer’s raised eyebrows.

“What?”, Owen protests. “I’m not going to die of boredom sitting pretty in an amplifier. You of all people should understand.”

But the Freelancer remains unconvinced.

“Things have changed…”

“So what?”, and there’s something burning in Owen now. Something deep inside him is hungry, and he desperately wants to make himself understood. “That’s no reason to just give up. You’re here. I’m here. And there’s always bound to be a few Scars left to fight.” His ever-present smile has grown desperate and impatient. It’s painful and makes his eyes water, the way it digs into his cheeks.

“Not in Heliost, there aren’t.”

Owen groans in frustration.

“Ponteix, then. Fort Tarsis, even. I’ve never been. I bet it’s lovely this time of the year.”

The pleading leaves a bitter aftertaste in his mouth. He doesn’t know why the opinion of an estranged acquaintance should matter so much to him, but he also remembers the week spent together – what it feels like to have somebody’s back and to return the favour in kind – unconditionally.

They’ve stopped again. The Freelancer, with his hands on his hips, looks at him differently now, as if he’s only now seeing through the quips and quick smile.

“Are you suggesting that we team up?”

And Owen’s never been this determined, this open with anyone before. The rawness of it makes his heart beat faster. His palms inside his gloves feel sweaty and hot, and he’s glad that the thin leather prevents him from wiping them on the loose fabric of his trousers.

“And would that be so bad?”, he asks, exasperated by the unnecessary overcomplication.

“Owen”, the Freelancer rubs his forehead, “we barely know each other”, but his reluctance has weakened into a mere formality that can be easily overcome – or so Owen in his eagerness likes to believe.

“Bah, you can thank me later.” And, more serious, he adds: “Look, like I said – I’ve got the credentials, the skills, the license. You won’t make it one step outside the Wall without a good cypher by your side. I’m that cypher.”

The self-confidence in his smile begins to waver. There’s one thing he hasn’t even considered yet.

“Unless, you already have a cypher.”

The Freelancer shrugs.

“Not anymore”, he replies with a distinct sense of loss that Owen doesn’t have the time to consider. He’s about to step up in the world, after all.

“Great! It’s decided then.” He turns around on the spot, then points in the general direction of where he’s quartered along with the other Heliost cyphers. “I’ll go get my stuff.”

“Oh!”, he adds when another exciting aspect of their up-and-coming partnership occurs to him. “And you’ll need to show me your javelin. I can’t wait to see it.” By then he’s already half-way out of sight.

“Owen, stop.”

And he whirls around once more, all impatience and barely-contained enthusiasm.

“What? Do you need us to kiss first?”, he suggests impulsively. “Hold hands? Because I’m…”

It’s the Freelancer’s unexpected laughter that interrupts this particular train of thought.

“It’s past midnight. The strider port won’t open until dawn. Calm down, Owen.”

And, strangely enough, he does.

“Oh, right.” He exhales, slowly and deliberately, before he closes the distance between them once more.


End file.
